


Featherweight

by Lywinis



Series: The Care and Keeping of Detective Inspector Jack Robinson [2]
Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Gen, Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Prompt, mostly stream of consciousness rambling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-23
Updated: 2019-09-23
Packaged: 2020-10-27 01:57:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20752448
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lywinis/pseuds/Lywinis
Summary: The measure of a man is not Jack Robinson's personal wheelhouse, specifically his own measurement. Let others worry about it.





	Featherweight

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kamibanani](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kamibanani/gifts).

> kamidoodles asked:
> 
> jack prompt: the measure of a man

Men are measured by word, and by deed, and by the company they keep. Detective Inspector Jack Robinson would tell you that, in most cases, appearances are everything.

Everybody lies.

Everybody keeps secrets.

It is the very nature of humanity, and the very antithesis of his profession. His job is to shine the light on all the ugly things that humanity tried to hide. Promotion of the very best of themselves left very little room for indecency.

The argument could be made that his own darkness made him a better detective. Perhaps, but Jack had never been much of a philosopher himself, no matter how he’d puzzled over them in school.

The measure of a man is how people see him, not how he sees himself. He knows the extent of his own wants and desires, but he also knows that there is no room for either in upholding the law. The law must be fair, and it must be enforced; though unfairness may be subject to measures to correct it, he must still operate within its confines until it no longer pertains.

It is a rigid and frustrating shell he has constructed for himself in the ashes of the first Great War, but he has not been in a position to allow himself the luxury of feeling many things since 1918. The unwavering pursuit of truth means that he can exercise his own control over things that have long spun out of his grasp—Rosie, his personal life in general, his own mental health.

If he can fit himself into the box labeled Detective Inspector day by day, perhaps the rote of routine can wear away the sharp edges left in him, like a rock washed smooth by the press of the ocean. Eventually, those edges will be gone, and he will be what society believes him to be – instead of struggling, he will have it come naturally.

Perhaps that’s why he finds that he enjoys the Honourable Miss Fisher’s presence so much. She has eschewed the boxes that he finds so comforting. She defies his attempts at labeling, at containing, at defining. She is ethereal, mercurial, constantly changing, always a surprise. She is a breath of fresh air in the box he has chosen for himself.

She undoubtedly is who she says she is. There are facets to her, like a finely polished gemstone, and he can always spot a new one, lurking in the curve of her mouth as she speaks, or the way she leans toward him as though to gobble his own secrets straight from the source.

She frightens him, in that way. Her profession is much like his—she seeks the truth, to all things. Shining lights where they ought not to be shone, uncovering things in his own soul that he thought were dead and buried long ago.

Perhaps that’s why he fears her seeing those sharp edges, as well. She could slice herself to the bone in her curiosity, and she doesn’t know enough not to come back for another look. So he keeps himself tucked inside his role, so that she doesn’t come to harm—not from him, at least.

He could not bear to be her undoing, to kill the curiosity in her gaze, even as he tries to thwart her flaunting of rules and regulations.

He wonders, even as he learns more of her, if those sharp edges are so different than her own, however. There are moments, long and quiet, in the deep watches of the night, where they almost mesh into one person.

Those moments pass like ships in the night, due to his own indecision, his retreat into the comfort of routine and the shell of what A Good Man means to him. A good man treats a woman like Phryne Fisher well, but with caution. A Good Man knows she could have him for afternoon tea without a second thought, but at the same time he knows that she won’t. He’s seen her sharper edges. He’s seen the scars.

He wonders when the measure of a man stopped being what people at large thought of him, and instead narrowed into a pinprick of one woman’s good opinion. He wonders when he started to care.

It has, like many things about Miss Fisher, both been expected and taken him completely by surprise.

Perhaps he should revise his definitions, but Jack has never been a philosopher. He’ll leave that up to someone else. He has more important work.

**Author's Note:**

> The ancient Egyptians believed that upon death, one's soul and various aspects thereof were taken to a great hall for their heart to be weighed by Osiris on a golden scale against a feather. If the soul was lighter than the feather, they would be permitted to enter the Field of Reeds and continue on the soul's journey. If the feather outweighed them, their heart was tossed to Amenti, the Gobbler, who devoured them, and they ceased to exist.
> 
> Every time I hear the phrase 'the measure of a man', it makes me recall that particular bit of information, that's all. Don't mind me, just moving some drabbles from tumblr over to where they're more permanent. They have their own series, so you can check out more of them, should you wish. Thank you for reading.


End file.
